Breaking Point
by Freyja529
Summary: [Tag for Everybody Loves a Clown] He brought the crowbar down like a gavel. Seventeen times he ruled. Seventeen times he found himself guilty. Every man has his breaking point and Dean finally reached his...


_**Disclaimers and Other Ramblings: I do not own Dean or Sam and would not be held responsible for what might happen if I did… Sorry, lost my train of thought. **_

_**This is a tag for Everybody Loves a Clown and obviously contains spoilers for anything up to that point in season two. **_

_**That final scene just won't let me go so I decided to do something with it for my own peace of mind. If anyone else enjoys it, all the better. Please review as I have no identity but the one based on the opinions of others. **_

"And I'm not alright… not at all," Sam paused and swallowed hard. "But neither are you."

Dean stared at him, his face a mask betraying nothing. Sam waited a beat, then turned and left his brother alone amidst the automobile carcasses.

Seconds passed and still Dean stood frozen to the spot. He was like a geyser of pent up emotion, roiling under the surface until finally the pressure was simply too great and he exploded. Snatching the crowbar up he moved without thinking, driven only by rage and pain. The sound of breaking glass pierced the silence as he swung it against the window of a scrap car.

Across the yard Sam halted in his tracks and wheeled around. Through the maze of broken down vehicles he could see Dean wielding some sort of weapon. Sam's first instinct was to run to Dean, see what evil creature he must be defending himself against.

He took a step and then brought himself up short as his brother lifted the crowbar again and the significance of Dean's target became horrifyingly clear. Comprehension crept slowly into Sam's mind and he realized it was no evil creature Dean was fighting; instead he was fighting a losing battle for control with the one person he could never triumph over – himself.

Sam felt his chest constrict and made a move towards his brother. Then he paused and instead ducked backwards into the shadows, out of sight. He squeezed his eyes closed as if to block out the disturbing image before him. He wanted so badly to go to his brother, grab the crowbar from his hands and tell him he understood. He wanted to tell Dean it was alright to grieve, it was alright to hurt.

But the fact was, he was scared. Scared of what might be said, scared of the hollow look in Dean's eyes, scared to admit that his brother might not be the strong one this time. His heart breaking, he turned and walked quietly back to Bobby's, alone.

Dean remained unaware of his audience. He brought the crowbar down like a gavel. Seventeen times he ruled. Seventeen times he found himself guilty. He felt the control he had worked so hard to maintain ripped away in a rush of anger and pain that made him feel as if his body would split down the middle.

A lifetime of following orders, of obedience and devotion to the _family business_, had made him a soldier. Now he'd been set adrift on the battlefield without his general. Again and again he raised the crowbar and again and again he brought it down on the car his father had given him, on the memories that threatened to pull him under.

He glistened with sweat and his arms ached with effort, but still he swung. All the pain, all the rage, all the guilt exploded with every drop of his hands. Images shoved their way into his tortured mind: flames, yellow eyes, his father leaning in to whisper in his ear, smoke from a funeral pyre, the look on Sam's face as he told Dean how guilty he felt. _Sam felt guilty? It was all just too much. Seeing him hurting... and not being able to help him... _

The truth was, Dean knew in the darkest part of his heart that _he_ was responsible for his father's death. It was just too coincidental: Dean experiencing a full, miraculous recovery, Dad dying, the Colt disappearing. _What the hell did you do, Dad? How could you leave us like this? It's all wrong… I should be dead; Dad should be alive. _Now Dad was gone. And Dean knew as soon as they found the demon and figured out a way to kill it, Sam would be, too. Back to his _normal _life, the one he'd left behind. And then Dean would be truly alone. Dean didn't _do _alone.

He brought the crowbar down, raining one final blow to his beloved Impala. Suddenly, as if coming out of a trance, he stopped. Exhaustion overwhelmed him and he felt completely and utterly lost. Body and soul, he was just so tired. Tired of the pain, tired of the guilt, tired of being so goddamn angry all the time. The darkness in his heart was eating a hole in his soul. He knew it and was helpless to stop it, even if he had cared enough to.

He swayed with the weight of his anguish, reminded himself to blink, to breathe. Had he ever had to think about these things before? He couldn't remember. All he knew was that something had broken inside him and could never be repaired.

But he had a job to do. It had been his job for as long as he had memory and would be until the day his borrowed time was up. His job as a big brother. So he would blink, he would breathe, he would walk and talk and fight. For Sammy. For Sammy, he had to.


End file.
